it's personal discussion

Welcome to my secret garden of thoughts! Or rather, the weeds of my mind, propagated by the roots of my past. Enjoy trudging along, tangling yourself, or perhaps taking an occasional whack at some of my darkest, meanest, and most human moments. Only those wicked enough to click are invited to this garden party.

~ Becky ~

My morning rituals are typically the same. French pressed coffee in a mug with a touch of cream. If the preferred mug is not clean, I will order Starbucks, in which case I will have a venti, hot, cinnamon dolce. I have a rotation of preferred mugs, all highly regarded in function as well as sentiment. Two of my favorites are decorated with the initial of my first name, gifted by my mother, one embellished with my sun sign, Scorpio, gifted by my sister, and one bearing the logo of the old coffee shop across from what was once an Irish dance studio, a sacred monument of my childhood. I cherish the still moments of the morning, feeling the heat of the mug against my curled fingers as I muse over whatever nostalgic memory has transpired. In these early hours of solitude, I revisit my first dance classes, final holidays with family members, running and laughing with neighborhood friends, bonding moments with my first dog, and other precious artifacts of time, since made obsolete, but never forgotten.

On the occasions that I select the plain white mug with the handle shaped like a teardrop, I am delt with less wholesome, but equally satisfying, memories. More specifically, memories of Becky. I feel the corners of my mouth turn up every time I think back to the various reports of Becky attempting to curse my name but finding herself only capable of reducing me to a pronoun. “I wish she wasn’t in the friend group," Becky would say to our mutual friends, shortly before her words would reach my inbox. Now, I take sips of coffee from a mug she once shared with her former husband. "Sure Becky, I’ll be your Voldemort." I think to myself, savoring the bitter taste that I love.

It all started the summer of 2019, when I began dating my current boyfriend. The two of us had been speaking for some time before I finally started making the forty-minute drive to his apartment across town. I remember spending hours curling my hair prior to embarking on my first visit, back when my hair laid past my shoulders in a veil of auburn. My boyfriend had a roommate at the time, who was conveniently out of town the first couple of evenings I ended up spending the night. It wasn’t until the third or fourth visit that I met my boyfriend’s roommate and close friends, including the now estranged Becky.

Becky was my boyfriend’s friend and next-door neighbor of two years. I wasn’t left with much of an impression upon meeting her for the first time as our interaction didn’t extend beyond a handshake. At some point during the night, Becky made a cameo, hovering by the front door for a few moments before slipping back out. I later learned that Becky inquired about hanging out with my boyfriend that evening, but rejected his invitation to come over once she learned that I would be present. Her reasoning was to avoid making a bad first impression.

It wasn’t until the next morning, when Becky let herself into my boyfriend’s apartment after a couple warning knocks, that I got a true sample of her persona. To clarify, my boyfriend gave verbal permission for her to enter by shouting “come in” from the kitchen, however, her presence still came to me as a surprise. In all honesty, after spending the night with a guy I was just beginning to date, I didn’t really want to engage further company in all my morning after glory. My hair was a mess, my skin dry and irritated from sleeping in makeup, which was also a mess, and I was nursing a hangover. Frankly, I didn’t feel well, and I was embarrassed about my appearance.

Becky was clean faced, bare legged, and sporting a different hair color from the night before... pink. She greeted me with “oh, you’re still here” before embracing my boyfriend and his roommate with open arms. “Did she really color her hair over night?” I thought to myself. I fought the urge to vomit as Becky proceeded to perform a monologue from the seat across from me. Clinging tightly to my glass of water, I took sips in between waves of nausea, trying to appear interested as Becky gave me a synopsis of her “artistic, hippie, empath” personality. I desperately missed said monologue when she began asking me one personal question after the next moments later. “What do you do?” “Where do you live?” “Do you have a good relationship with your family?” Becky would ask in her Disney princess voice. My answers were received with further questioning. “Man Becky, I haven’t even learned all of this yet,” exclaimed my boyfriend from the kitchen. I continued to answer politely while fighting to mask my nausea, until eventually dismissing myself to the bathroom for a reprieve.

To my surprise, the nausea dissipated once I reached the bathroom. I fixed my hair with my fingers and wiped smudged makeup from my eyes. I debated on the best way to take my leave for the morning as social anxiety clocked in to relieve the consequence of its best remedy. “Would it be rude to bail mid conversation with his friend?” I asked myself as my mind replayed scenes from the morning behind the dialogue of overthinking. I thought of how the morning started, with my boyfriend and I comfortable in the privacy of his bedroom. It felt as though his neighbor sensed the moment we transitioned to the living room, as she promptly joined us moments later. The inner dialogue continued, “Does she often come by this early? What was with the ‘oh, you’re still here’?”

Becky was helping herself to my boyfriend’s vape pen upon my return. My boyfriend eventually retired from his kitchen duties and joined us in the living room. I was relieved when he became Becky’s subject of interest. As an introvert, I can only be probed for so long, especially when I am not feeling well. I became genuinely annoyed, however, when my boyfriend offered to take me out to lunch, and then immediately invited Becky after I agreed. Dropping by before 9am and sticking around all morning while your male neighbor has a girl over already toes the line of intrusive, especially considering how my presence repelled her the night before, and my boyfriend’s response was to promote Becky to third wheel? I understand he was just trying to avoid making her feel left out, but I still found it annoying, mostly because I selfishly wanted alone time with the captor of my interest. Still, did she really think crashing our morning after would make a better first impression than just hanging out the evening prior, when she was invited?

Becky stuck around until we decided to get lunch. To my pleasure, she declined to join. My boyfriend and I agreed on Hibachi. As I sat next to him, across from the grill, I saw him messaging a woman pictured with blue hair. “Who’s that?” I asked. “Oh, it’s Becky!” He proceeded to show me the conversation. Becky’s message read: “Mary’s cool, unless the crazy is hidden…” “Can’t I be cool and crazy?” I quipped out loud. My boyfriend laughed and gave me a kiss. “Suck it, Becky” I thought to myself. I later learned that Becky knew that I would be spending the night, which brought upon my curiosity about what could have motivated her to come over so early if she knew I might still be over from the night before. I thought once more about how she greeted me: “Oh, you’re still here."

~The Plants~

I don’t remember seeing much of Becky for the next few months. I would, however, hear about dinners she would cook for my boyfriend, and evenings she would spend on his couch, crying about personal issues. Becky was married at the time, and her husband was also a member of my boyfriend’s friend group, so I never thought much of the dinners. I did, however, take interest in how often my boyfriend would express concern for Becky’s daddy and marital issues. At times, I was left with the impression that Becky was a little too comfortable sharing intimate details about her life with my boyfriend, and to be honest, it made me uncomfortable that she seemed to prefer confiding in him over her own husband. I heard of a new account of Becky crying on my boyfriend’s couch almost every time I came over.

I eventually learned that Becky’s daddy issues stemmed from being raised in what she described as a “cult”, and that she was diagnosed with PTSD from childhood trauma. My boyfriend came to know of these details after Becky had a breakdown in response to him putting on a horror movie while in her company. Following this event, Becky frequently confided in my boyfriend about issues involving her childhood trauma, and eventually her marital problems. She began coming to my boyfriend so regularly, her husband resorted to asking him what Becky would share to get an idea of what was making his wife so unhappy in their marriage. Becky’s husband eventually stopped referring to my boyfriend as his presence in the friend group gradually lessened. Becky, on the other hand, had a new cornucopia of issues to bring to my boyfriend every week.

My boyfriend would make comments like “I feel like her therapist” to which I would ask “does that bother you?” He always had the same response. “No, she just needs somebody to listen, and her husband doesn’t want to listen.” “Should you be doing her husband’s job?” “I don’t feel like I’m doing his job, I’m just lending an ear.” “Just don’t let it become more than that.” “Never.”

For some time, it was difficult for me to confide in my boyfriend about how I felt when he would talk about Becky. She was hardly ever actually in the room, but my boyfriend brought her up so often, I felt as though she were a phantom third wheel, or perhaps a curse. Despite this, I remained outwardly neutral when my boyfriend spoke of Becky. The Becky topics usually revolved around whatever was making her unhappy in her marriage that week, lack of sex and communication were common complaints, or personal issues regarding her family and upbringing.

I was always left feeling like I knew way more about Becky than I should considering what I learned from our brief interaction. Should I know that she feels insecure about her ability to sexually please her husband? Should my boyfriend know this? Of course, my boyfriend’s roommate would also be present for a lot of these conversations, but I was still left with the impression that Becky didn’t have much regard for boundaries. The way she would let herself into my boyfriend’s apartment and use his space as temporary storage only added to this take away.

A couple weeks after I met Becky for the first time, she went on a two-week vacation with her husband. During this vacation, my boyfriend agreed to take care of her plants, as he had done before. What had not been discussed during the discourse of this agreement was Becky’s intention of bringing every one of her houseplants over to my boyfriend’s apartment. My boyfriend came home one day to Becky and his roommate moving her large family of houseplants into his home. When my boyfriend questioned why she didn’t just provide a key like last time, Becky responded “I thought you could use some inspiration." Becky had a way of making a mile out of an inch of allowance, always at someone else’s expense.

For two weeks my boyfriend’s entire kitchen table, counter tops, and balcony were covered in Becky’s house plants. Becky’s precious orchid was placed in the window of my boyfriend’s personal bathroom. “Did she bring them over because she didn’t trust that you would locate all of them in her apartment?” I asked. “No idea.” My boyfriend didn’t seem to understand why she felt the need to bring them into his apartment, but he also wasn’t too bothered. I, on the other hand, found it incredibly annoying to cook around for two weeks.

When Becky eventually returned from vacation with her husband, she took her time to collect the plants. I distinctly remember laying on the couch with my boyfriend after cooking dinner, week three of maneuvering around Becky’s houseplants, and listening through the paper-thin walls as she exited her apartment, laughing with a friend down the steps from the landing. “How long has she been home? Is she ever going to come get her fucking plants?” I asked my boyfriend, no longer masking my true feelings. “This is getting pretty annoying, isn’t it?”

My boyfriend messaged Becky that night: “Yo, come get your plants." Becky responded: “LOL I was thinking of just leaving them there ;)" The plants stayed for another week, turning what was supposed to be a two-week commitment into an entire month. By this point, even my boyfriend was pissed about not being able to use the kitchen table, and he finally laid the heat on Becky. He sent her another message, this time less playfully asserting his needs: “If the plants aren’t out of here by tomorrow, they are getting tossed. I want my kitchen table back.” The plants were gone by the next time I came over.

Becky found clever ways of asserting her presence, especially when she wasn’t around. Despite this, I was immersed in the novelty of my new relationship and therefore had other things on my mind. I did, however, take note of how often Becky insisted on calling me the wrong name in private conversation with my boyfriend, even after multiple corrections. I came to observe this while resting my head on my boyfriend’s chest as he messaged Becky within view. I secretly enjoyed watching him get annoyed as she repeatedly referred to me incorrectly.

“Will Emily be joining us for Friendsgiving?”

“You mean Mary?”

“My bad, there are just so many girls. Hard to keep track of all the names.”

Moments later…

“Can Emily cook?”

“Yes, Mary* can cook.”

I wondered at times if Becky messaged my boyfriend illuding to “other women” and “forgetting” my name, hoping I would view the conversation and be left feeling as though unfavorable activities were taking place in my absence. Despite this, I paid little attention to Becky’s remarks about “so many girls," and I didn’t buy that she was unable to remember my name. Unfortunately for Becky, I knew that she was the one with the greatest demand on my boyfriend’s time outside of my presence, and I am very well versed in manipulative women. I later looked up the meaning of the name Emily and one word stood out… rival.

~ A Bad Chef Moment ~

Becky continued hosting dinners for my boyfriend, and I continued to not be invited. She would occasionally join us for a movie night, but this did not keep her from “forgetting” my name. By October my boyfriend and I decided we were official. Still, it wasn’t until December that I finally received an invitation to one of Becky’s dinners.

Becky and her husband, Andy, were situated directly across from my boyfriend’s apartment, separated by a small landing. Their unit had the same layout only reversed, with the entrance positioned on the opposite end of the landing. The place was clean and neatly organized with interesting knick-knacks, a brown leather couch, a corner cabinet displaying The Art of War, an area rug, and homemade artwork on the walls. My boyfriend’s apartment, on the other hand, was a bachelor’s pad for some time and it showed.

Dinner was pleasant. Becky prepared the meal while my boyfriend and I sipped wine at the table. Andy was less of a presence, but eventually joined us when everything was ready to be served. The dish was a type of stir fry on rice, it was very good. Before digging in, I asked if anything contained nuts as I am allergic. Becky confirmed that everything on the table was nut free. This prompted conversation on the topic of my various food allergies, to which Becky took particular interest, offering follow-up questions regarding which nuts gave me the worst reaction. I don’t remember much more of what we spoke about that night, but I know I enjoyed the evening.

A couple days later, my boyfriend and I roamed the city catching Pokémon on our phones with a group of his buddies. Becky joined us for the after party at a mutual friend’s apartment. My boyfriend begged me to make the burgers I made for him the night before, only encouraging his friend’s blessing to use the kitchen. After a quick run for ingredients, I began prepping the patties.

I could feel Becky’s gaze burrowing holes in my back as I got to work. I thought of the many times my boyfriend complimented Becky’s cooking. He didn’t ask for her cooking this time. Perhaps she felt put aside for the new girl? I continued prepping, despite the weird energy coming from the opposite end of the room. Unfortunately, it did not remain that way, as Becky was suddenly right behind me, arms crossed and wearing a scowl. “What are you doing with all of this?” Her tone was abrupt and tinged with superiority.

I felt a wave of heat rush over my face, the way I normally would in response to confrontation. I politely told Becky what I planned on doing with the ingredients, to which she immediately provided her unsolicited criticism. I went ahead, regardless, and Becky continued standing behind me, scowling. By this point, everyone in the room was starting to feel awkward. My boyfriend attempted some comedic relief. “Becky’s staring at Mary like a mad grandma.” Everyone laughed. “I’m just going to let the woman cook.” Becky didn’t take the hint, gradually closing in on my space until taking over completely. I walked away, choosing to remove myself entirely. “I’m sorry”. My boyfriend apologized as our eyes met, not bothering to hide his disappointment.

I was surprised to see Becky’s husband in the mix of company when I rejoined the party. I quietly wondered if he had just witnessed his wife’s behavior, and if he was perhaps immune to secondhand embarrassment. When Becky was finally ready to serve the burgers, everyone grabbed their plates, the one thing I was allowed to do without criticism. As everyone chowed down, they proceeded to compliment only me on the burgers, including Becky’s husband. I appreciated their subtle retaliation. Becky scowled and picked at her food.

The next day, Mathew, the friend who hosted everyone the day prior, came over for a few rounds of Mortal Kombat. Mathew lived only a stone’s throw away from my boyfriend, which made going over to each other’s place rather easy. The only issue with having company over was Becky. Often, Becky would hear us letting friends into the apartment and take it as incentive to knock on the door, which would always lead to my boyfriend letting her inside. This occasion was no different.

Mathew arrived as I was cooking Lazy Man’s Breakfast for my boyfriend. It’s easy and one of his favorites: roasted fingerling potatoes, cherry tomatoes, onion, candied bacon and salami in a skillet. Like clockwork, as soon as Mathew found a seat on the couch, there was a knock at the door. “Oh, hey Becky!” My boyfriend swung the door open. I felt my face get hot. Of course, he just had to answer the door.

Becky waltzed in, greeting Mathew and my boyfriend’s roommate with a voice that sung of disingenuous positivity. Attempting to remain unnoticed behind the stove, I prepared for another mutiny. Would she have the audacity to boss me around in my boyfriend’s kitchen? Sure enough, it wasn’t long before Becky took a stance behind me as I added ingredients to the skillet. My disposition must have been less welcoming in response to her inquiry about what I was making as she did not immediately attempt to elevate herself into a position of authority. Instead, her energy seemed more calibrated towards winning me over. Perhaps she was aware that she made a bad impression the day prior.

“If you had to choose one spice for cooking, what would it be?” Becky continued her efforts with small talk. “Um, cayenne pepper.” No longer bothering to feign interest, I continued answering like an annoyed mother, obligated to her duties despite the pestering of a bored child. “I made a good dish for dinner last night. I have some left over, would you like to try?” Realizing my opportunity to get Becky out of the kitchen, I took full advantage. “Yes, I would love to try some.”

Becky retreated to get whatever it was she wanted me to sample. When she returned, she handed me a plate of what appeared to be pasta. Naive to what kind of pasta dish I was holding, and distracted by my priorities on the stove, I didn’t think to ask if the food was nut free. Instead, I gave the plate a quick reheat, and mindlessly took a bite.

Within an instant, I felt a prickling sensation travel down the back of my throat as my tongue began to swell. “This doesn’t have any peanut butter, does it?” Becky responded with a look of surprise before speaking. “Oh no! Are you allergic? There is some peanut butter in the sauce.” I immediately discharged the contents of my mouth into a napkin and began gurgling water. It was too late. I swallowed just enough for the prickling sensation to take siege of my stomach.

Desperate, I began swinging open cabinets in search of antihistamine. Quick intervention was needed to keep my condition from becoming more severe, especially considering I was without my EpiPen. Becky began sputtering nonsense. “Okay, we just need to think of what to do. My sister is a nurse. Would medicine help?” The inside of my mouth continued to swell as hives developed on my face. “I just need Benadryl for now.”

“Keith! Your girlfriend needs Benadryl!” Becky went in search of my boyfriend as I checked the last cabinet for medicine. Nothing. My stomach began erupting into a symphony of pin pricks and stabbing pains which would twist, cramp, and release into waves of nausea. Why do I always feel like barfing when Becky is over? I was suddenly reminded of the food on the stove as it began protesting in a sizzling crescendo. I adjusted the heat, hopeful that nothing would burn as I retreated to the bathroom, where I immediately started emptying my guts.

My stomach felt like flesh tangled in barbed wire as my body conducted an exorcism of Becky’s pasta. The nausea would subside for a few moments, only to return with five more heads. I felt a refreshing cool on the back of my neck as my boyfriend’s hands gently lifted my hair. It was romantic, until I started barfing again. “This is so gross, I’m sorry.” “Honey, you can’t gross me out after what I’ve seen in Afghanistan.” I accepted this as true, as my boyfriend is a seasoned war veteran.

I was able to take a couple Benadryl tablets once the nausea subsided. As soon as I felt decent enough, I returned to the kitchen to check the stove top. To my satisfaction, nothing was burned. My boyfriend came to check on me. “How are you feeling?” I felt a haze of fatigue wash over me as the antihistamine took effect. “Better, just drowsy.”

Becky entered the room, still holding the plate of peanut butter pasta. My boyfriend pointed at the dish. “That has to go.” Becky responded by handing the plate off to my boyfriend’s roommate before returning to the kitchen. “I wish someone had told me Mary was allergic to peanut butter. I had no idea.” My boyfriend looked at Becky as if her statement slapped him across the face. “We had an entire conversation about it a couple of nights ago during dinner.” Becky’s posture sank. “I’m sorry, I’ve been having so many bad chef moments lately.”

Becky moped for the remainder of the evening while everyone else enjoyed each other’s company, never once bothering to ask me how I was feeling. I didn’t blame Becky for my lack of troubleshooting before trying her dish, but I found it strange that the only apology I received was regarding her 'bad chef moment’, not out of any real concern for my condition. I thought back to the conversation we had a few nights prior, when Becky inquired on my nut allergy. I would never expect anyone to remember my various food allergies, but it surprised me that Becky seemed to have no recollection of the conversation whatsoever.

When everyone eventually went home, my boyfriend and I curled up to a horror movie. We agreed on Get Out by Jordan Peele. “Man, that actress could be Becky’s twin.” I felt a rush of annoyance as my boyfriend pointed out the physical likeness between Becky and the female lead. It took a moment, but once my eyes adjusted to his observation, I could not shake the resemblance. I watched as Becky’s Hollywood doppelganger played the part of a convincing sociopath pretending to be a normal person and thought once more about Becky’s ‘bad chef moment’. Did she truly not remember the conversation about my peanut allergy? Was the offering of peanut butter pasta an honest oversight, or was it my first Trojan horse?

~ BFF ~

Christmas came and went as we celebrated what would be the final holiday season unaffected by the global crisis that was to come. By January, my boyfriend’s roommate found his own place, allowing us more space to develop our relationship without observation. I enjoyed the company of his roommate, but I also appreciated the many benefits of privacy. It was during this time that the culture of my boyfriend’s domain became less of a revolving door of friends, and more accommodated towards cultivating a comfortable space for the two of us. It was also during this time that I was finally able to candidly express to my boyfriend some of my reservations regarding his friendship with Becky, a discussion that came to fruition after I asked him why he didn’t bother locking the front door at night and he responded, “sometimes Becky comes over at night when she is feeling lonely or depressed.”

His words, spoken so casually, sank into my chest like a dagger. It didn’t help that this exchange took place directly after a moment of intimacy. I chose not to spend the night. My boyfriend seemed confused as I made my way out, but I wasn’t convinced he picked up on the subtext. After he closed the door, I lingered a moment, desperate to hear the door lock behind me. Nothing. Slowly, I made my way down the landing, still listening as the sharp edge of my boyfriend’s words took on a new form… silence.

I woke the next morning under the weight of an insidious feeling. I was beginning to wonder if my boyfriend had an interest in me beyond the bedroom. He often boasted about having a “hot girlfriend” which of course flattered me, but I wasn’t convinced he cared for me on a deeper level. I would come over, make him dinner, fuck him, and then listen to him talk about Becky. At times I was left wondering if he even considered my inner world. Did he find my emotional output intriguing or was Becky the only one to garner his interest in this way?

I found myself plummeting down the rabbit hole of precarious feelings, scrolling through old messages, keeping score of how often my boyfriend brought Becky into conversation. At some point I landed upon one of our earliest exchanges where I humorously asked my boyfriend if I could hire him for mercenary work after sharing some of what I experienced with an abusive ex. His response did not mirror my humor. “There is only one person I have promised to kill for on command. Her parents are absolute monsters.” I felt less casual rereading this message, given I was certain I could now identify the “one person” in reference. Although I knew my boyfriend was not serious about committing murder on anybody’s behalf, I internally begged for him to feel some level of protection over my vulnerability, but I was coming to understand that I may never be the “one” to provoke such feelings.

My emotional state called upon the memory of a recent conversation where I asked my boyfriend if he ever indulged Becky with personal details of our relationship while assuming jury duty for the trials of her marriage. I wanted to believe my boyfriend when he responded, “Never. What happens between us remains private.” I followed up by asking if Becky’s husband, Andy, ever seemed bothered by the constant exposure of his “shortcomings”. My boyfriend’s response only left me with more questions. “There was one time that Becky mentioned he got upset about her coming over, but I think that had to do with her touching my hand to comfort me as I was having a moment.” “She touched your hand?” “Yeah, after Amy and I broke up Becky came over to talk. I had a moment where I started crying and Becky reached for my hand and just held it for a few moments. I guess she told Andy when she went back home and something about what she said bothered him. That was the only time I’ve heard of Andy taking issue with Becky coming over.” “I’m guessing you heard about this from Becky?” “Yep.”

I knew that I could no longer ignore what I was feeling. In all honesty, I was afraid to come clean about my insecurity out of fear of being dismissed as just that, insecure. Despite this, I knew that my emotional experience in our relationship was equally important and should be acknowledged as such. With this sentiment in mind, I sent my boyfriend a text laying out my concerns:

“Morning… Let me just preface by saying I need to get this off my chest: I do not think it is normal for you to leave your door unlocked all night for Becky. I also do not find it appropriate for Becky to be coming to you late at night to remedy her “depression and loneliness”. Becky is married. She has a HUSBAND she could be turning to for companionship and comfort during lonely nights, but she leaves him to come to YOU: the guy who keeps his front door unlocked all night… for her. What do you think you are communicating? What do you think you are encouraging? What do you WANT to encourage? To be honest, I have growing concerns over your friendship dynamic with Becky, and the more I learn the less I feel that my girlfriend status is exclusive. In fact, I kind of feel like I am emotionally sharing you with Becky… like you are her honorary boyfriend or something and I just get the D. I don’t like feeling this way. I don’t think I want to go further in our relationship considering this is a dynamic you are comfortable with.”

My boyfriend deserved better than a breakup text, but I didn’t want to confront him in my emotional state. I was embarrassed about what I was feeling, and I didn’t think I could talk to him about Becky in person. The text was a cowardly means of self-preservation, and it was the only way I could confront him with my anger. He was the only guy I trusted enough to open myself up to after my past relationship made the thought of ever dating again unbearable. I was angry at him for leading me on just to make me feel like an underwhelming entrée.

I didn’t know for sure if something more was going on during Becky’s late-night visits, but my mind couldn’t help but to linger on the multiple occasions of Becky “forgetting” my name and Becky making it almost impossible for me to cook dinner for my boyfriend. Was I a fool for initially feeling so casual about these occurrences? Am I villainizing an innocent woman with my own insecurity or is my gut trying to tell me something? Insecurity can either warn of future dangers or lead to self-destruction, making it difficult to know when to trust such precarious feelings.
My boyfriend eventually responded:

“Ok, I was not expecting this. We obviously have a lot to talk about, can we please at least have a conversation before you make any final decisions? I really like you and I like what we have together, I don’t want to lose it over a miscommunication. I think you have gotten the wrong idea about my friendship with Becky. That being said, I understand how I may be at fault for the impression you have gotten. Becky is just a friend, and though she does confide in me often, I think that emotionally dumping is just her style of interacting with people. She kind of overshares with everybody, even with Andy present, and we have all just come to accept this as a part of her personality. That being said, I understand how leaving the door unlocked for late night visits can look a certain way. Becky just knows that Cody and I go to bed late and sometimes she comes over to smoke a little when she is having trouble sleeping. I’m sorry I gave you the wrong impression with what I said. I really hope we can talk in person.”

I saw my boyfriend later that day and finally came clean about my thoughts and feelings regarding what I had been observing. I was blunt while addressing how it made me feel every time he would speak of Becky’s personal issues only to ask how I’m doing as an afterthought once noticing my eyes have glazed over. I was also blunt about my feelings on Becky having the privilege to just let herself in to the apartment whenever she pleases and abusing that privilege. He agreed to lock the door at night and limit Becky’s visits to no later than 9pm. I felt much better after talking things through, mostly because I finally felt comfortable being fully open with my boyfriend. He was patient and understanding of my concern. Needless to say, I did not end our relationship.

I stayed with my boyfriend the following weekend. We filled our time together with charming dates, our favorite movies, and new places. At some point my boyfriend received a message from Becky just as he was about to shower. “Becky is asking to hang out, do you want to get to know her a little better while I shower?” “Sure, I’m just going to be watching a movie.” Moments later, there was a series of soft knocks at the door. I opened the door to let Becky inside.

Her hair, no longer pink, was colored a dark coppery brown, giving her a more mature look. We greeted each other with a hug and started off with the “how have you been?” questions. “What movie are you watching?” The movie was a strategic buffer for any potential awkward silences. As an introvert with social anxiety, I am not always the best conversationalist, and do better in social settings where there are options for taking a break from the conversation. “Elf! It’s one of my favorite Christmas movies. Have you seen it?” “No, I’ve never seen it.” “Sorry, I’m a weirdo and I like watching Christmas movies even after Christmas.” “No, you’re totally fine."

For the first time, I felt comfortable around Becky. She seemed more laid back in comparison to our other interactions and I did not have an uneasy feeling in my gut. Perhaps the conversation with my boyfriend worked out whatever was causing that feeling? We enjoyed watching the movie together, unbothered by any occasional silences, and got to know each other better when conversation arose.

I was excited to learn that Becky pursued figure skating as an adult and even worked as a coach for some time. I shared about my history as an Irish dancer, to which Becky took great interest, proclaiming how she desired to take Irish dance lessons as a kid. I let her know that I dreamed of becoming a figure skater as a kid, but instead picked up Irish dance because it was what my mother preferred. We thought it was funny that we both at one point took interest in pursuing each other’s beloved hobbies.

At some point my boyfriend came out to join us, prompting the conversation to take a less casual turn. Becky began opening up about issues she was having with her in-laws, mainly regarding feelings of being an unwanted presence in the family. We eventually migrated over to Becky’s apartment where we learned that her husband was at his parents’ house, patiently waiting for her appearance at a surprise party planned for her arrival. The occasion was a late celebration of Becky’s birthday. Becky found out about the surprise party and chose not to go through with meeting her husband at his parents’ house to avoid having to feign surprise in exchange for his family’s fake acceptance. Instead, she inquired on what my boyfriend was up to and ended up hanging out with us.

Throughout our conversation with Becky, I began to understand what my boyfriend meant about her tendency to emotionally dump on people. My boyfriend and I listened patiently in Becky’s kitchen as she projectile vomited her feelings regarding her in-laws. Among other things, she spoke about how her mother-in-law only recently acknowledged her experience as a figure skating coach and didn’t even know that she has had a different occupation for a couple years now. My boyfriend occasionally offered advice, while I mainly listened. Eventually, we said goodnight and returned next-door.

As the front door closed behind us, I turned to my boyfriend “Wow, ok, I see what you mean about emotionally dumping. Not saying it’s a bad thing… I just… understand now.” My boyfriend laughed. “Yeah, it can be a lot at times. I hope you still had fun.” “Oh yeah, I had fun.” I did enjoy my time with Becky, and I felt I garnered a better understanding of her personality. She seemed to be very sensitive and unabashed at expressing emotion. I tend to be a bit more stoic. Despite these differences, we found that we have common artistic interests and admiration for each other’s hobbies.

There was one thing about Becky, however, that struck my curiosity, and I wondered if my boyfriend was thinking the same thing. “I kind of wonder… if Becky was so fed up with her in-laws, she chose to not go to the party tonight just to sabotage their surprise.” My boyfriend appeared to think for a moment. “That makes sense from what we heard tonight. You can always call Becky out on that sort of thing; she likes to be held accountable.” “Oh no, I’m barely an acquaintance, I haven’t even come close to earning a place in voicing opinions on her private life. Sensitive topics such as this are best kept between you and me.” “Okay, I trust your judgment.”

A few days later Becky messaged me about planning a couple’s photoshoot, as she and her husband worked as professional photographers. I responded in support of the idea. The next day I watched my boyfriend message Becky while I rubbed his shoulders. One of Becky’s messages read, “Mary doesn’t message me much.” My boyfriend responded, “Oh, well we’ll have to change that.” I was a bit confused about why she was saying I don’t message her much when I responded to her message the day prior. Despite this, I chose not to bring it up to my boyfriend. Instead, I waited to see if he would relay Becky’s statement. He never did.

The following week Becky left for a yoga retreat in Atlanta. I took the opportunity to send her a message wishing her a good time and safe travels. From there we began messaging back and forth regularly. I received messages from Becky every day, memes and banter I began looking forward to. Wishing each other good morning and good night became a part of the ritual. I felt as though I acquired a best friend overnight, and although deep down I didn’t trust the feeling, I didn’t want to let it go. It was a satisfaction I had been craving but given up on a while ago. A female best friend.

When Becky returned, we began hanging out almost every time I visited. Becky would message my boyfriend only to inquire about when I would be over again, leaving me with such a unique feeling of specialness I can only ever remember feeling as a child. Here I was, still in the honeymoon phase with my boyfriend, and the butterflies tickling my tummy put in place by Becky were making me levitate like a hot air balloon. I pretty much felt myself blush when my boyfriend said, “I think you’re Becky’s new best friend.”

The truth is, I have always wanted female friends, but never had much luck acquiring them. I had plenty of female acquaintances in school, however these never blossomed into friendships as I was not allowed a social life outside of my interactions during class. In fact, I was often punished if I spoke of having friends. This led me to hiding almost all my relationships from my parents, a habit which extended well into my adult years. I did not even introduce my current boyfriend to my family until recently.

Growing up I was plagued with loneliness; at times the feeling was unbearable. As a child, friendship was a privilege I was not allowed. As an adult, friendship became a foreign concept that felt unattainable. For a while, I satisfied my need for human connection through one-night stands. I wasn’t concerned about being picked up and put back down, as long as they made me feel precious for the night. Secretly, I wanted to be the stone they couldn’t bring themselves to toss back into the river, but they always did. I never thought I would eventually wish to be Becky’s precious stone.